Sweetest Goodbye
By Adèle Saint-Pierre
Allô, bonjour
“Allô, bonjour,” says the bird.
Allô, bonjour!” say the others that have gathered around it
on this bright, sunny last day of June.
In a couple hours, the movers will arrive to pick up your
furniture and your packed boxes. There is an apartment to
clean, a rental car to pick up, an Internet modem to drop
off. For the moment, though, these birds. Blue, and yellow.
Peaceful, beautiful.
Allô, bonjour!” you say back to them.
At dusk, there is nothing left to do. At dusk, the apartment is empty and clean. Clean and empty. On the kitchen counter, however, a box of cleaning supplies.
“Wipe down the top of the kitchen cabinets,” says the box of cleaning supplies, “Give the fridge another onceover! Wash the windows, too, at least from the inside!”
But what are the tops of kitchen cabinets no one can see to Sophie? What importance an old fridge that’s as clean as it will ever be? As for the windows, this is the city; they will always appear dirty. Sophie wants to go outside,
Sophie wants to go for a walk. And Sophie is right. It’s your last night in Brooklyn. What are you doing in this empty apartment listening to a box of cleaning supplies?
Outside, then.
“Allô, bonsoir,” the city says.
Adelphi Street is quiet. Myrtle Avenue less so. Quiet again on Willoughby, still closed to traffic in the evenings since the early days of Covid.
Allô, bonsoir
In Fort Greene Park, the fireflies. Everywhere
“Bisous, bisous,” they say. “Bisous, bisous. Bisous, bisous.
Bisous, bisous
Sophie leads you up towards the Prison Ship Martyrs Monument. The skyline over Manhattan flashes with lightening. Soon, it will flash over Brooklyn; the storm is coming this way. But not for a while yet. You and Sophie do what others are doing: you stop for a while; you sit on the steps in front of the monument to watch the light show. And it occurs to you: there are things you will remember forever, others you will forget.
The fireflies, the
lightening over Manhattan, the soft voices of people speaking around you, the sound of the city just outside the park: this you will remember. The sweetest goodbye. To think you would have missed it if not for Sophie.
The wind picks up, a drop of rain: you have a long drive ahead of you in the morning. Another flash of lightning, a rumble with it this time: hurry home and get your rest. “Allez, bonne nuit,” the city says.
“Bonne nuit, Brooklyn,” you say, “Bonne nuit.
Allez, bonne nuit
Adèle Saint-Pierre is a Franco-American artist and writer. Originally from Maine, she is a career educator who currently calls both Providence and Québec City her home.
